


Complications

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awkward First Times, M/M, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which things are not like books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was going to be a quick little smut-attempt [ive never really written it before] and then it wasn't.
> 
> I am incredibly disappointed in my characterization and generally just in all of this and its probably full of mistakes but i dont feel like working on it anymore because it's only going to get longer and shittier so here take it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was going to be a quick little smut-attempt [ive never really written it before] and then it wasn't.
> 
> I am incredibly disappointed in my characterization and generally just in all of this and its probably full of mistakes but i dont feel like working on it anymore because it's only going to get longer and shittier so here take it

This was probably the last thing you’d been expecting to occur. In fact, despite the fact that you remember the horrific sequence of events leading up to this moment, you are still having a hard time believing that there is any way to explain this at all.

However, you are now neck deep in the most awkward conversation you’ve ever had in your life, and you’ve had some awkward conversations. Nothing will compare to this, though. Nothing at all.

This is mostly because you’re both sitting on familiar human bed sheets and Strider- Dave’s hands are hesitantly playing with the button on his jeans.

You take a small amount of solace in the fact that he is just as uncomfortable with this conversation as you are, but take more discomfort in the fact that you’re still going on about it.

“So you guys aren’t all the same?” you say, still confused about how that works out. You suppose it clarifies some cultural misunderstandings you had with John.

“Nope. Well, guys and girls bring different things to the pants party, usually. Well there are exceptions to the rule, but for what we’re talking about…” he says. He had to say it in the dumbest most awkward fashion he could think of didn’t he? He couldn’t just talk like a normal sentient being with normal mannerisms.

It’snotlikeyoucaneither.

“Then, how does that work? You know, explained in the least disturbed and demented manner your idiotic taste muscle is capable of smacking out,” you ask.

You figure this is an important question. You also figure it shouldn’t be awkward. You’ve had your tongue over just about every inch of his weird pink mouth. You figure that this should be one of those things that should just be a natural next step.

You stick your claws through the hole near the hem of your sweater that’s been there for years. It gets bigger and bigger every time you look at it. You can fit a good three fingers through it.

You chew your lip and he just shifts his muscles in discomfort.

“You know, you just kind of, you know man, you just…” He hesitates.

Most couples don’t really need to explain how their genitals work to each other before they try to go a bit further. You were kind of much more into the idea of just going with it, just losing yourself to him as you clawed up his back and chewed up his lips and drank his breaths, and eventually finding yourselves, through very fluid maneuvers, entirely stripped of your protective clothing and figuring out what to do then.

It would be so nice, and easy and simple. You’d just kiss him a bit, first on the lips, then down to his jaw, and you’d trail to his collarbone and tuck your head into his neck and bite.

“Alright, I’m done with this stupid dancing around the topic. This is absolutely retarded. Who the hell even cares? Are we fourth graders? No, we’re practically fucking adults. I talk about dicks all the time. This isn’t even worth it.”

You’d be able to feel the warmth of his skin through his clothes. His hands would be in your hair. (You’ve done this dozens of times) His fingers would be on your scalp and his breath would be in your ear. Then it’d be in your mouth again and you’d wrap your legs around his waist. You’d trail your fingers up his shirt, feeling the softness of his skin and the very solid, very real, very warm, flesh of his body. He’d be right beneath your fingertips, pressed right up against you. He’d be realer than he ever was otherwise, because he’d be right there, telling every nerve in your body that he existed quite wholly and that you, your body, was just as real and solid.

He’d pull you from the dreams of your waking life, because he would be just so very there. And you would inhale only when you absolutely had to, because you wouldn’t want to let him go, because he was more than air to you. He was realer than air, more precious.

“So, basically, the dude’s got a dick, ‘kay? Which, is basically this not-actually-attractive-but-still-somehow-attractive sort of… meat-sausage wand-“

Your fantasy breaks for a second. “What the fucking hell does that even mean?” Why did he have to describe things like that? Why?

“Come on man, there is literally no sexy way to describe this shit, alright? It’s a dick. You don’t dress them up and make them sparkle. They’re fucking dicks,” he says. “It’s a meat stick with two balls behind it and it gets hard when you get it up.”

Everything is terrible.

“And just what exactly do you do with this hardened flesh stick?”

“Well that’s debatable and is entirely up to the owner of said glorious flesh stick and whoever he chooses to allow VIP access to it,” he says.

“Well, if that wasn’t the dumbest and most vague thing I’ve ever heard, I will probably never encounter what is,” you say.

Perhaps that isn’t a surprise you wanted, then.

His fingers are at the button on his jeans again.

“I don’t even know what that would mean,” you say.

You don’t want to deal with this. You want to kiss him over and over again and feel him and bite him and be against him and feel how real he is and feel how real you are and you don’t want to deal with any of this awkwardness.

“So now it’s your turn. You have to go through the awkward ‘this is what my junk looks like’ mini-speech. Good luck. Have fun. This is your final test before you can have a license for my dick,” he says.

Yousupposetheawkwardwayhetalksisstupidlyattractive.

“Okay,” you sigh, your claws digging up your sweater a little more. “Yeah, so, both genders have the same deal shit, and neither of them have hardened flesh sticks.”

You wish, you wish, you could just kiss him and kiss him, and just touch him until you are both more real than any other portion of the universe. You’re on a bed. Beds, you’ve discovered, are levels of perfect for kissing you did not know achievable.

“You know what, fine, what you said, I make enough fucking references to my own genitals every day. I’m going to just explain this bullshit to you. And you know what? I really need some more explanation from you and there’s really no non-awkward way to do this, okay? There just isn’t one. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you. It shouldn’t even be awkward. We’ve gotten so fucking close over and over again that I don’t even know what the point of this conversation is. Just, freaking…” you pause in your rambling, which entirely shatters the determination you were attempting to build up so that you could make an entirely reasonable suggestion.

You exhale.

“Just take off your pants. I will also take off my pants. We will ruin each other’s fantasies in mutual horror and thoroughly stab our glancesockets with the reminder that we are not actually the same species and that this relationship is totally fucked up.” Words are not capable of staying in your mind for more than half a second.

That was a terrible suggestion. That was awkward. You’re awful.

“Alright, sure fine, that makes this a hell of a lot easier,” he says.

You glance at him, your body relaxing, as you are relieved that you don’t have to explain it. You feel like you could have, though, but only as a joke, or as something to make him uncomfortable. You don’t know how to explain it in a serious context.

He stands up, making the springs in the bed creak. His fingers have undone his pants.

“You are disturbing amounts of eager and I don’t know how I actually feel about that,” you say. “We have to live with this forever. We will both have this image stamped into the meat of our respective thinkjelly and we’ll never be able to erase it.”

He pauses just for the minutest moment. “Yup,” he says. “That’s what’s going to happen. And it’s gotta happen at some point. If you don’t want to, speak now or forever hold you peace.”

His pants are unzipped and you can see his boxers. They’re red plaid. Who’d have guessed…

“Just, fine okay, go for it…” you say.

“You’re going after me,” he reminds you.

“Yeah, yeah, I fucking know, get on with it,” you snap.

Your muscles tighten and you glance away from him momentarily to stare at your bare feet. Then you look back up, because you’re really curious as hell. Actually, this is really vital information for keeping your up your relationship so you should probably be less disgusted, because it shouldn’t technically matter that much. You wish it didn’t.

Butitkindofdoes.

He pulls his pants off and his underwear and yes that was probably the best way to describe whatever it is you’re looking at, good going, Dave. You take back any criticism you had for his methods of description.

“Okay,” is all you actually know how to say. That’s all there is to it. That’s it. Right there.

“Okay?” he says back. “Just okay? Was hoping for something more than that, I mean come on, normally you never shut up and now that there’s something to actually talk about, you’re just ‘Okay’?”

“Oh, oh no, no, hold on, I’ve got something. Just give me a second,” you say. You pause, clear your throat a bit. “What the fuck is that and please tell me it doesn’t do what I think it does or go where I think it goes because that’s going to hurt like fuck and you’re not allowed to put your weird human meat bulge in my nook and if you do I will probably gut you and hang you by your intestines.”

“So that is what a nook is.”

“Yes.”

“You have a nook.”

“Yes.”

“You have a pussy then.”

“And you don’t, apparently, which is weirding me out. Also your dick-bulge thing is just kind of chilling out there in the open and I don’t know how I feel about that, either,” you say. “Also, if you don’t have… anything resembling a nook, then, is there just like, space between that and your ass? Like is there just flesh there?”

He just shrugs. Infuriating. 

You don’t quite understand that. That’s something you’re going to have to see. Also touch. You don’t know how to feel. Your emotions and your consciousness are battling again.

He pulls his underwear up and throws himself onto the bed, sending it creaking and bouncing.

“Your turn. I’m not going to be the only one flashing their junk. It’s not happening.”

There is nothing in this conversation that doesn’t make you want to die.

“Yeah, yeah, okay…” you groan.

You’re wearing sweatpants so you don’t even have the excuse of fumbling with the button or zipper to hesitate.

So you slide off the bed, inhale, and justgetitoverwith, pull your pants down.

You’d thought about this sort of thing before, actually, doing something like this in front of someone else. It’d be intimate and nice and not at all this awkward. Not a striptease, nothing that tasteless or obnoxious, just… not like this.

You pinch the waistband of your underwear and suddenly you are at risk for being incredibly, incredibly, vulnerable. There is no one in any universe that has ever seen you like this. You are the only living soul that has any idea what you look like without the shield of your clothes, and quite honestly even you never really wanted to get a good look.

You’re short and you’re heavier than you’d like around your midsection. Your horns are stupidly tiny, childishly tiny, mutantly tiny, unnaturally tiny, and there’s a tiny little groove in your right one from when you fell and hit your head on a table when you were a sweep old. Your teeth are a crooked, overlapping mess that doesn’t even properly fit into your awful maw.

Then there’s the sludge that lines your innards and soaks your brain and drips out of any injury you allow to carve up you’re your rot-worthy flesh.

And that would end up dripping out of other places if you decide that you’re all right with this.

He’s seen you without a shirt on, though, you remind yourself. He’s seen you without a shirt on. He’s seen the little scars from various fights gone wrong. He’s seen the tiny, tiny, purplish stretch marks on the lowest part of your stomach near your hips, which you still don’t understand, being you were never quite that heavy. You’ve lost weight, though, accidentally. Weather that is from not feeling like eating or the fact that you’ve gotten a bit taller, though, you have no idea.

You can’t win. Your body insists on being awful. It’s best to accept it.

Your thumbs are still on your boxers and Dave is waiting patiently.

“Dude, don’t worry about it. I did the thing. You can do the thing too. I’m not going to be that freaked out, not unless you have like, teeth or something…” he says, trying to get you to hurry. Are you hesitating that much?

“You don’t actually have teeth down there, do you? Shit, um, okay…uh…” His face has gone pinkish and he’s nervous as hell.

“No, I don’t have teeth, dumbass,” you hiss. “God fucking dammit, here…”

You force yourself to drop your boxers to your knees.

He gets this idiotic look on his face like he’s pretending to examine something scientifically and it’s really stupidly comforting.

“I see…” he says. “Very interesting.”

Should you pull your pants up yet? Is it too soon for that? Is waiting longer making it awkward?

“Okay, so… so what’s a bulge, then… if that’s all you’ve got going?” he asks carefully.

You don’t want this.

“Okay… um…”

You sit down on the bed next to him. He moves up closer to you, apparently intrigued. It makes you feel weird for not being as openly interested in him. You were, though. You really were. You’re curious. It’s a part of him, after all, and you really do care about him.

He’s usually the one who’s all cagey and emotionally constipated.

You notice that he never actually properly zipped or buttoned his pants back up.

Now you’re both staring down at the space between your legs and you don’t know what to do.

“Alright,” he starts. “You know how a lot of the time with board games or card games they’re really stupidly complicated sounding and the instructions don’t make any sense and it’s better to just figure it out as you go? I’m thinkin’ that’s what should be going down here.”

You’re not actually entirely sure what to do with your own anatomy, though, honestly, so you couldn’t really give him instructions. You know what you’ve read in smut novels. You don’t know how to do this in real life.

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever…” you say. You’d sort of wanted to do it that way from the start but then one of you, or both of you, decided that you should try and explain this shit first. “Listen, I’m going to explain this shit once to you and that’s it.”

“Okay…” He’s about as thrilled as you are. And yet you’re doing this. Maybe this is what commitment feels like. It’s terrifying.

You gesture to the flat plate between your legs. You take a deep breath. “Bone bulge projects the actual bulge, and also shameglobes. Pretty much yours, but inside out. Okay, well, no, not really, but closeish. I think… Shameglobes don’t come out. Bulge does. Nook is underneath. That’s it. That’s the thing. “

Your heart is pumping much faster than you’d like, strung up high on nerves.

There’s a too long pause where he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay. I, I got it. Insideout dick. Or something…” he mumbles.

There’s another pause where there’s no speaking and it’s just as thickly hellish.

“Yup, alright,” you say, and you stand up from the bed and pull your pants back on. 

“Now if we’re gonna do the thing, we’re going to pretend that that didn’t happen and do this as fluidly and unawkwardly as goddamned possible or so help me, this whole thing will be literally impossible.”

You run your hands through your hair.

“You know if you still want to…”

“Well that was the plan,” he says. “That was the whole point of going through all this shit.”

Right. That was the point. You were just worried he wouldn’t be interested anymore. You internally kick yourself for doubting him.

“Okay, yeah,” you say.

He plays with his hair a bit, trying to get it out of his face. His hair, and Rose’s hair, are so pale. You and Kanaya call it white. They call it something like “blonde”. It’s white to you. You’ve never seen hair like that on anything that wasn’t a lusus.

It’s so strange. Humans have all different skin and eye and hair colors, but no differences in blood, and no differences, really, in anatomy. It’s very very strange. Their variety is put out there in the open, no way to hide it. There’s nothing to mask those types of differences.

It’s like trying to protect your heart when you’ve got no ribs.

You’ve heard from Rose that they don’t currently have a blatant hierarchy, but that there’s still something there, that there’s hatred and judgment for things that are just constructs of the brain’s interpretation of waves of light. You figure that that’s the same everywhere you go.

That’s a shame.

You sit down on the bed again, edging closer to him.

You think you should say something but also think that you shouldn’t. Not anything important, just something, just to make words happen, to fill up the silence.

Then he leans over and kisses you on the lips, quite softly. He’s always quite soft to start with. You wonder if it’s because he’s nervous about your teeth.

When he pulls away, you follow him and kiss him back and then you’re finally getting to the part of this that you wanted, you think.

The stabbing injection of awkwardness is done and you can just skip to the good part.

You’re just also nervous about the good part.

You try to force your inner mind to shut up for a second and end up kissing him a bit harder than you’d intended.

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you in. He kisses hard back.

His hands are on your back and he’s probably the only person you’ve ever touched whose skin doesn’t feel like ice on yours. He’s warm, a bit cooler than you, but still, he’s warm. He’s pleasant and perfect but still so alien and you try not to think about the most alien part of him.

You stop the kiss for a second. You don’t know what to do.

When you do, he doesn’t start it back up again, does not fix the broken space.

“I um, I, don’t know…” you start. Your mind refuses to clear. “I really, I’m… I’m going to go…”

You get up and you leave.

 

You hide and think and regret for hours and you hate yourself and you wish you hadn’t just left him like that and you wish you knew what to do and you don’t hate him you don’t you don’t, does he think you do now? He probably thinks you hate him now, good going, asswagon. He thinks you hate him. You might not be able to talk about this again, you might not be able to talk to him about this, and you might not be able to clear it up, and you might not be able to actually do what you’d both intended.

It’s not like you didn’t want to.

You do still want to.

Your stomach aches.

You roll over on the couch while Rose knits silently.

You wonder if she’s aware of your relationship. You haven’t told her. You don’t know if Dave has. You wonder if it would be possible to ask her for advice, or if she’d just give you some irritating, relentless, analysis of your current mental state that you didn’t ask for.

You wonder if she actually thinks you’re reading the book in your hands.

She’s probably more observant than that.

You’re tired.

“Lalonde,” you say, to get her attention off of her little clicking needles.

“What?” she says. She starts adjusting herself immediately, realizing the position that she’s curled herself into is not as comfortable as her body had been telling her now that her brain had been pulled from the pools of patterned focus.

“So, this book,” you start. This isn’t going to work. You never talk about books like this. She won’t believe you. Maybe you don’t actually want her to believe you, and would rather she just give you the answer without it being so direct. “This freaking book, is infuriating. It’s dumb as trunkbeast piss.”

“And I suppose you are now going to explain to me why this is and that I should just wait until you’re done,” she says.

“Yeah,” you tell her. “Anyway, yeah, he keeps, like, completely blowing off his matesprit every time they try to screw, even though he clearly is down for it and keeps saying he’s down for it like a goddamned over-eager idiot, and it’s just really fucking stupid.”

You wait for her to say something.

Her mouth goes crooked and her lips purse. She hmm’s and pauses in her knitting.

“Perhaps he’s self conscious, and because of his self consciousness he is entirely unable to completely do what he wants, either for himself or his matesprit, because he’s afraid,” she offers. “It’s probably just as much of a struggle for him as it is for his matesprit.”

You sigh.

“No, he’s just stupid.”

 

You talk to him in the nutrition block after about twenty-seven hours of egregious self-destructive thinking.

He pours some gross coffee that you have no desire to even look at.

 

“So can we just, pretend that never happened?”

You kiss him first, with lips that have more scabs than usual. You kiss gently at first, both of you, because you’re both afraid of scaring the other off or getting scared off.

Then something clicks in your brain, something that you’ve been trying to get to click for what seems like two sweeps.

It doesn’t matter.

It really doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

You bite his lip and he tastes like metal.

Your arms wrap around his waist and his back and you push your hands up the back of his shirt, claws trailing just ever so lightly over his soft skin. It makes him twitch a bit.

You smirk into his mouth.

His hands trail up to your face and just brush your jaw lightly before he threads his fingers into your hair.

Your lips trail over his face, down his jaw, and nothing matters, nothing matters, this is beautiful, perfect.

 

“So, do you think you could, maybe, give me a demonstration?”

You’ve ended up on the bed again. His face is buried in your shoulder and his breath is on your neck.

“Since, I have no idea what to do?”

You lean back, letting his lips trail down to your collarbone. He peels your shirt down so that the neck is stretched over your shoulder. It’s not much of an effort. This shirt is too big to begin with.

“The fuck do you mean, demonstration?” you breathe, your claws gripping his shirt, your words vibrating on a purr.

He’s already between your legs. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You wish you’d fought against it more. You wish you wanted to fight against it more.

He’s bruising up your neck and he’s so close and so warm and your heart is hammering and you just want him closer, closer, closer, more, more, no matter how it happens. You’re pitiful. (But so is he)

“Show me how you work, come on, you know what I’m saying,” he says on the smallest of moans. 

You inhale.

You end up grinding up against him and, ah, yes, that does get hard, great, and your breath catches in your chirring throat. It curls out of your mouth in a gravely gasp, because, god, oh god, that felt so good. You’ve never felt anything like that.

“How the fuck do you work?” you retort.

You push up against him again because that was just so perfect. You feel him against your nook and your bulge, which is under so much pressure right now anyway that you wonder how and why that could feel so good.

His mouth goes back for yours and misses a bit, sloppily, but his tongue finds yours again soon enough.

You know what he means, and you know what your answer would be if you were in the mood for explaining. You know exactly what you want, and that is something in your nook and something wrapped around your bulge.

He rolls his hips down on you and it’s almost what you want, but not quite there. Probably not quite there for him either.

You start kissing his neck and get him to melt beautifully against you. Then your kiss turns to a bite and you suck on his skin and you get him to moan for a second, before it turns into a human version of a growl and he sucks air in tight through his teeth.

“Augh, fuck, shit, your teeth are sharp, ow, okay…”

Then he pulls away and you think you’ve ruined everything and that you’ve completely fucked this all up and that you’re an idiot and fuck, oh fuck, there’s a bright ring of cherry dots on his shoulder. You should be less proud of that.

He doesn’t get off you, though.

Instead, he just goes for your pants that are so painfully restraining you. You think he’s going to unbutton them. You don’t exactly mind. They’re far too tight anyway. You’d love if they came off.

But instead, he grabs your crotch in a manner that you think may be experimental, given the slight hesitance of it. You whine.

“So what exactly is a ‘bulge’?” he says. “I couldn’t exactly see it before and this is definitely some weird shit you’ve got going in your pants here.”

You sigh, or groan, exasperatedly. “You’re right there, figure it out.”

You’re positive you’re already in the process of ruining these pants. They feel grossly tacky.

He rubs your crotch a bit and god, it feels nice, but you wish he’d just get it over with.

He finally undoes the button on your jeans and that feels loads better.

“Alright, so what the fuck do I do with this?”

You start to snap at him to figure it out for himself, when he apparently proves his question to be rhetorical by running his fingers over your length and god, oh god, oh god, oh god, that’s perfect, perfect, perfect.

“Apparently, that.” You hear him laugh lightly.

Your bulge wraps itself around his hand without your consent. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. He pulls and rubs at it and it sends all kinds of perfection and heat coursing up your spine, straight to your already ecstatic heart.

Your nook is throbbing and aching and you just want him on you, in you, kissing you, touching every part of you, all his skin, all his warmth, as close to you as he can possibly be.

You moan, partly with pleasure, and partly with newfound need.

He presses his fingers into the base of your bulge, into the slit it comes out of, and starts playing with your globes and he doesn’t even know what he’s doing and it’s still perfect somehow.

Then he moves his fingers just a bit lower to the slit of your nook and all you want is for him to press his fingers inside of you, that’s all you want, and you ache for it, desperate and empty. He plays with the folds, but hesitates at the opening and it’s the most horrifically maddening thing in the world.

Then he leans over you and starts kissing you again, his fingers just teasing your nook terribly. His lips brush yours briefly one last time before he moves back down to your neck.

You suppress the moan boiling in your throat and dig your fingers into that nice white hair of his. You pull just a little. He grunts.

His fingers move back to stroking your bulge and that’s not at all bad, it’s fantastic, in fact but, god, you ache.

“You’ve got to be shitting me with that…”

Your voice rattles with the uncontrollable chirring in your throat.

“What?”

You don’t even have time to say anything before he goes back to your nook, this time actually pressing a finger in.

You inhale sharply. It feels so strange, to have someone else’s fingers inside you, very weirdly… full, and entirely unfamiliar. It also feels pathetically wonderful and you want more of it, more of it, you need more of it.

“I’m not… even…” he breathes. “I’m not even going to say anything dumb and cliché about you being wet. This is just fucking absurd.”

You tug on his hair a bit harder.

He puts another finger in, which feels just the right amount of tight, and starts moving them without a specific rhythm. You grind up against him. Your veins are pounding with vicious need.

 

He’s ignoring your bulge, now, though.

You grip his back and his shirt and your claws end up shoving themselves straight through the fabric. He inhales sharply at first, but he exhales a small moan soon after.

You think that you should figure out how to restrain yourself from tearing his back to ribbons, but then he crooks his fingers just so and you find yourself ripping up his shirt.

“Ah, okay, yeah, that’s half sexy half just painful, okay, yeah…” he mumbles into your shoulder.

“Sorry.”

You breathe.

Half of you wants him to never ever stop doing what he’s doing and the other half would like to hear him make a few more noises, and would like to explore every inch of him.

“Lemme, lemme…” You try to configure something. “Get… Fuck, let me.”

“Hm?”

You push him up, trying to get both of you in a sitting position. He goes with you, and halfway up, he takes his fingers out and leaves you cold and throbbing.

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him fairly aggressively to make up for the current lack of anything really touching you.

You straddle his thighs and suddenly you’re nervous and hesitating again, because you really don’t know at all what to do.

You both just breathe before he starts kissing you again. The back of your mind can’t stop telling you, vaguely, that his tongue is pink instead of black and that that’s weird, but you shove the thought away. That’s probably the least weird thing here, which is another thought that you burry deep, deep, down to continue to ignore later.

He pushes his hands up the back of your shirt and oh, ew, you can feel that one of his hands is wet. Maybe that’s not completely as gross as you initially tell yourself it is, though. 

He grips the fabric and pulls it up to your neck. You part for a moment so that he can take it off.

Then he starts kissing your neck and collar again and yes, that’s lovely lovely, perfect, but no, no, no, that’s not what you’re doing right now.

Your fingers find his pants and wander at his waistband, and then you push your hand up his shirt, over his stomach in a fit of betrayal by your confidence.

His skin is so smooth and soft and his muscles move and twitch under your fingers.

You pull his shirt up to his chin and grip his shoulders to push him down. You lay him on his back and trail kisses down his chest,

becausethisiswhatyou’reprettysureyou’resupposedtodo, and he seems to approve.

You inhale and your fingers find the clasp of his pants. You undo the button and pull them down, boxers and all, just to his thighs. You’re sitting on his legs and aren’t quite sure how to proceed.

“Okay, so this doesn’t move or really do anything at all?”

“No, that’s not what those do.”

“That’s weird.”

“You have a bright red, writhing, retractable, slug-looking thing. Don’t even hate.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what we’re doing, yes…”

You touch him carefully, testing, gentle with your thumb and forefinger. You think you should probably treat it similarly to your bulge, and slowly start rubbing.

He moans and it’s relaxed and soft and sweet as sugar. You go a little rougher, and it makes him louder.

He tells you, sloppily that “that’s good, that’s good….”

He’s got his fingers threaded through his hair, his hand on his forehead. His breaths come quick and all of him is warm. You wonder if you could do something more, wonder what other kind of noises you could pull from his throat.

Your nook is throbbing and you’ve got your spare hand rubbing against it, trying to figure out how to deal with every little pang of need need need need it’s sending you. You thumb the base of your bugle, and it’s not quite enough at all.

You push against him, then, just with your bulge, and it wraps itself around him instantly.

Heat drenches your veins again and you grind against him a bit. He lets out a moan that you don’t even hear yourself mimic. He pushes up against you and he’s so clearly melting. 

He’s got his hand in his hair and his face is flushed bright with cherries and his shirt is pushed up to his neck, and you did that. That’s your doing. You put him into this state of beautiful vulnerable pleasure. His glasses are still on, though, and you find it ridiculous but not objectionably so. Though you’d sort of like to remove them, if only because you’d like to see the rest of his face.

Your nook also won’t stop aching.

You need to fix it, it’s good, it’s great, but it’s just not right. It’s just not working.

You move a bit, readjusting again.

“What’re you doing now? That was perfect…” he objects as you have to loosen your bugle’s grip. “Stop changing it up, just, just go with it,” he gasps. “Don’t make it so complicated…”

“Was most certainly not perfect,” you moan.

You lay down on his chest, careful not to hurt your own bulge, or his weirdly stiff human one. This is all very awkward and unsexy.

You get yourself on top of him, though, and he’s searing hot underneath you, lively heart and pounding blood.

His dick rubs against your nook without actually penetrating it, which you are terrified of, and your bugle is still tightly and contently clinging to him. His hips are pushing up against you again almost immediately.

It’s great, it’s good, you want him, but it still doesn’t quite feel how you want it to.

“This still isn’t working,” you pant into his shoulder.

Your skin is hot, you’re perfectly turned on, you’re molten, dripping, aching, loving, breathing, gasping, but something is just missing. It feels good, great, beautiful, but just not quite enough.

“Just… just relax… just stop thinking…” he says, half of the noises caught in his throat, and the other half cut up by gasps. His arms pull you close and he kisses you deeply.

You let your eyes close.

You want to relax. You want to just melt into him.

“Kat… Kat, relax.” You can feel his breath on your ear, warm and damp and sweet. Then he lets out a small moan.

You become aware, suddenly, of how incredibly wet everything is, as well as of the sopping sounds every time his hips lift up, and how that must mean that this is going how it’s supposed to.

And god, it feels good, it feels so good, but you’re just not, feeling like it’s getting better. You feel like it’s just sort of drifting off, slowly, just like it does when you try to do this yourself.

Dave is making some spectacular noises, though. He’s somewhat obnoxious, entirely without control of how vocal he’s being. He’s tossing out moans and grunts and mumbling your name into your shoulder. He’s completely lost in bliss and he tells you he loves you once or twice.

You can feel every inch of him moving beneath you, even bone, every muscle, and it’s lovely, lovely, hot but you’re just not getting anywhere. Your nook is empty and despite his dick rubbing against it, there’s really nothing there to touch it the way it needs to be touched.

You groan, out of frustration instead of pleasure.

Dave is loud and panting heavy and he loves you, loves you, loves you, ‘Kat, he loves you, so much, so much, you’re so good, so good, he loves you, loves you.

“Dave,” you say, “Dave, put, just, I want to try something else…”

He whines. “No, this is good, this is good,” he slurs out.

“Not too much of a change, just, I want you to just, or, let me do it,” you say.

You push up so that you’re on your elbows and get your bulge to let go of him entirely, which he is visibly and audibly distressed about.

“Hold on,” you say. “I… can you, can I…”

“What?” he says, voice exhausted and exasperated. 

You groan.

“I need something inside me or I’m going to actually die on top of you,” you say.

There is a moment where there is no sound but his panting as Dave collects his thoughts and catches on.

“You sure that won’t like kill you, or something? What you’re thinking of?” he says.

“Oh, fucking please, Strider, can you not be doing these jokes right now?” you say.

“No, I mean, I could barely fit two of my fingers inside of you. I’m trying to be courteous here,” he says.

Yes, that’s also what you were thinking, but you’re also thinking that, maybe, it will be okay, somehow. Maybe it will be good.

“Please, just, just…”

You sigh.

You’re frustrated. This is horrible. This is not what you wanted. You don’t know what you wanted. You’re doing this horribly. You interrupted him while he was doing just fine.

He sits up. He redirects the position so that now you’re lying down, back against the pillows, just like the beginning.

“Just chill for a second,” he says to you, unusually sternly. “Just chill the fuck out, for one second.”

He presses his lips into yours and you aren’t sure you know how to relax anymore. You’re not sure you can do this. You think your bulge is retracting.

“Just relax,” he says, this time more soothingly. “I don’t know what I’m doing and neither do you, but it’s going to be fine.”

He kisses you again.

“This is supposed to just be fun, and nice, and you need to just quit worrying about weather or not you’re doing it ‘right’, because I know that’s what you’re doing, and not overcomplicate it,” he tells you. His voice is soft and low. He’s so horribly patient with you and your bullshit and you’ll never understand how.

“I’m not overcomplicating it. Our genitals don’t exactly work together normally. It’s over complicated to begin with,” you insist.

“Just chill. We’ll get there,” he assures you. He also sounds urgent, and slightly annoyed.

He kisses you again. Then you feel his fingers on your bulge again.

He drags them up your length and you sigh.

“Also we should stand so we don’t make a fucking mess,” you make sure you say before he makes you lose it. “I don’t feel like wrecking this bed…”

He stops, he slumps, he groans a bit, he says, “Yeah, alright,” and then he starts to get off the bed. Then it hits him and he asks, quite unsurely. “Wait, wait, you mean, actually ‘ruin’ the bed? Like, wait, what? What are you even talking abou-“

You smash your lips against his and kiss him in a fashion that could probably be described as overdramatic.

“Yes, yes, I mean ruin the bed, please stop talking,” you say quickly.

You get up to stand pressed against him. He’s only a little bit taller than you are. You could very easily find a way to be bothered by that, but you decide that for once you’re going to look at as something you’re a fan of.

You’re sort of used to being smaller.

He pulls his shirt off the rest of the way and you both just abandon your pants.

He kisses you again and wraps his arms around you, his hands trailing over every inch of your back and then down to grope at your ass. Then he slides his hand a bit further to tease your nook from behind.

 

“So long as we’re standing, though…” he says.

This is his only warning before pushing you up against the wall.

“Why would I expect anything else, of fucking course,” you say.

You make sure to leave a nice new mark on his collarbone, just letting a kiss turn into a bite.

You wrap your arms around his neck and thread your fingers through his hair while he just grinds against you. Your kissing is mindless and you only breathe when you absolutely must, both of you sucking in little gasps when you’ve absolutely got to. 

Your bulge is caught in between your stomachs, the movement from that alone feeling really somewhat satisfying. You breathe out little moans in between kisses.

“My request still stands, though,” you manage to gasp out against his lips.

He plays with your nook, almost absently.

“If you’re sure,” he says. “I’m not going to object. You’re the one who was so against it before.”

“Just do it, please, god, this is the last thing I can think of,” you insist.

“Well it’s not the last thing…” he muses.

“Could you just do it?”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Oh my god…”

He doesn’t seem to change what he’s doing, though. He still just teases your nook, slowly, slowly, maddening slowly. He runs a finger along the slit and your irritation with it keeps melting into desperation.

You make the decision to do the same and free one of your hands from his now thoroughly tangled hair. You slide it between the two of you and lightly finger the base of his dick, which is pressed right up against the inside of your thigh and, just like everything else here, far too close to your nook to not be really doing anything.

But then you think. You want him to feel good. You don’t want to play this idiotic game. You want him to moan and melt and love, just like he was doing before.

You start doing as you were before, stroking and pulling, creating friction.

The soft noises in his throat are a bit shaky and come out on breaths.

Then you feel a finger press into you and you couldn’t stop the purring, gasping, needing, whimper that curls off your tongue even if you had time to try.

Then he puts in a second finger and it’s even harder to keep yourself from becoming anything short of a mess, but you manage, somehow. He moves them in rhythm and you rock down on his hand. Your own fingers have forgotten everything about teasing and are simply doing their best to make him mimic your noises.

You feel him, then, try to push another finger in, and it’s tight, tight, not so pleasant and you gasp, not so sure anymore for a second.

You have an arm around his shoulders to hold you steady and you only grip him tighter, unable to avoid scratching out little rosy welts.

Then he pushes them all the way in, and you stretch, and deal, and it’s fine, better than fine. In fact, it’s got your heart hammering, incredibly, blissfully, alive, sending heat all through you. You can feel it beating in every part of you, in your belly, in your fingertips, and quite especially in your nook.

The sounds bleeding from your mouth are just purrs and whines and moans and little snippets of his name, over and over, as his fingers continue to move in rhythm.

He’s breathing with you, though, and your head is close enough to his chest that you know his heart is beating just as fast.

He rolls his hips against yours and you keep kissing him and soon you feel him pull his fingers all the way out, just for a second. It’s cold and empty and you can’t help but let out the tiniest cry, but you know it isn’t permanent.

When he starts to push into you, (which takes a couple of tries. He misses at first.) you inhale sharply.

“Okay?”

“Mmuhuh…”

He does it slowly, and you wonder if this was a terrible idea, because once again, it’s a tight squeeze, it’s not great; it kind of, kind of, hurts, really kind of hurts. You breathe through your teeth.

“Sure?”

“Shutup…”

You ease up. It starts to hurt less. It gets easier. It starts to feel like something good, and then starts to feel like something great.

You take him just fine after that, and he starts up a rhythm again, starting with just little shallow thrusts.

Your bulge rubs against the inside of his leg and you reach around him to play with it yourself, needing everything to be touched so as to complete the portrait. You can feel yourself becoming overwhelmed just by your nook, though, with all the movement, all the heat and throbbing.

He reaches to meet your hand though, and you feel his fingers pull over your length and you can do nothing at all but let out the most embarrassing noise you’ve ever produced.

There’s so much warmth in your veins and stomach that your whole world starts to evaporate until there’s nothing left but your oversensitive flesh. You’re drowning in your heartbeat and can do nothing but feel.

He’s making such perfect sounds, too, each one budding new roses. Everything is crumbling in a manner more beautiful than you could ever imagine and he tells you, he tells you, that, god, you’re so good, so good, you’re so great, you’re perfect, and that he loves you to pieces and you think you’re telling him the same thing.

There’s pressure in your lower abdomen, building mostly in your groin. You vaguely remember how to breathe.

Your rhythm is faster now, back and forth and back and forth. It’s perfectly fluid and thoughtless. It’s turning your nerves on end. It feels so incredibly fantastic that you’re not sure how long you can even deal with it.

He let’s out a very long moan, practically a scream, but it doesn’t register much.

The pressure is just getting higher and higher with every gasp you suck in.

He’s saying something to you, but you forget what it is. 

You’re molten sensation and boiling blood and it’s so hot that you can’t do a thing until finally, finally, your body goes rigid and you start to break.

The fact that he’s stopped moving doesn’t even register, really, nor does the fact that he’s slumped against you and holding you close.

The only thing there is, is the slow release of pressure, which is just as agonizingly fantastic as anything else, and the feeling of fluids beginning to rush out of you. Your gasps slow down and your mind starts to fade back into being, very slowly.

He’s so warm and nice against you. Everything is so, so, nice. Your arms are gelatin, but you hold him anyway.

The pressure dies slowly, and soon you’re left standing on shaking legs.

Then you don’t know what happens.

\------

You wake up starving, nauseous, sticky, confused and half dead.

Your limbs all feel blissfully useless. There are sheets under you and a thick blanket over you and as far as you are concerned, it is the most comfortable thing in the world despite not being slime. It's soft, so soft, and wrapped around you tightly, holding you and your lifeless limbs in comfort.

Your wrap it tighter around yourself and have every intention of falling back to sleep.

Except that, unfortunately, the stickiness between your legs is overwhelmingly disgusting, completely wrecking the comfort. 

You quickly recall what that is and what it's from and who's bed you're probably in. 

Hopefully. Hopefully that's whose bed you're in. If not, then, well...

He's not there, though. He's nowhere to be found. 

This is rather disheartening.

You force yourself out of the comfort of Dave's bed. You're entirely naked still and everything about you feels disgusting. You're awful and sticky and tired and smell rotten of sweat and sex and you can't get to the ablution block fast enough. 

The walk there is more of a stumble, as you're dizzy and feel slightly sick. 

You have never seen your reflection's hair do that before and your horns are nearly lost in the nest of black tangles. You look as tired as you feel, therefore confirming that as soon as you are no longer disgusting, you are going straight back to bed. 

Maybe you should eat before that, though. You're not positive. You can't tell if you're starving or going to vomit. 

There are bruises all around your shoulder, little black splotches left over from him. 

Because he bit you.

Because he kissed you hard.

Because you let him.

Because you wanted him to.

Because you and he pailed. 

You and Dave pailed.

You initially turn away from your reflection because you hate your teeth and you can see all of them right now because you can't control your expressions. Your cheeks are grossly red. 

You stare down at the tiles, at your feet, at your naked form and you think. Perhaps those things aren't terrible and you should try to figure out how to look at them in a better light. 

You want this to work. You need to like yourself too.

You face yourself once more, for just a few seconds, before stepping into the ablution trap and scrubbing every inch of yourself cleaner than hell. 

The shower is too hot and makes you feel even more nauseated than when you woke up. You're still feeling a level of tired you've never in your life experienced before. You're so tired it hurts. Actually, everything, just in general, hurts. Your entire body aches. Particularly your groin, confirming that you have probably made some more bad decisions. 

You step out of the shower, dripping but clean and make to get dressed.

You lie on the bed for a while after putting on sweatpants and a t-shirt and soon enough the nausea fades to incredible hunger.

You head to the nutrition block and dig through the cabinets for anything resembling food. 

Dave finds you pouring stale cereal into a bowl.

"And he finally awakes from his hibernation, decidedly not dead after all," he says as soon as he sees you. 

He walks over and he kisses your cheek quickly before leaning against the counter. 

"Course I'm not dead. Why would I be dead?" you say tiredly. You eat the cereal dry with your hands like its popcorn or something. There's no other way to go about it.

"You've been asleep for, let's see now," he stares at the ceiling in mock contemplation. "15 hours, I think? Or the equivalent of 15 hours, I guess, since we're on a rock hurdling through an endless void at the speed of light and days aren't real anymore." 

You shrug. "Yeah, and I'm going to continue to sleep for uh, at least a hundred more hours and/or until I no longer feel like I'm made out of last week's grub pudding," you say. "You know, like a normal person who isn't you, who I'm guessing from observations of your current lack of fatigue, is impossibly inexhaustible for some reason." 

He takes a handful of cheerios out of the box and tosses a few into his mouth. "So is sleeping for goddamned ever afterward normal for you, then?"

You sigh. Of course. 

"Yeah," you say

“Right, so can we talk somewhere private about this?” He asks quickly, suddenly seeming somewhat nervous.

You gesture to the empty block. "No one's here." He tosses what's left of the cereal in his hand into his mouth. 

"Anyone could walk in at any time," he says. 

You groan in exaggerated exasperation that you know isn't really there. "Your block, then." 

Which is where you head quite quickly, bringing the entire box of cereal with you as well as the bowl you poured. 

You sit on his bed with the box in your lap while he informs you of what must be unfortunately shocking to him. 

"You made a goddamned mess and it took like twenty minutes," he says, apparently still perterbed. "You really could've warned me about that."

"I didn't think that was a thing that would need clarifying," you say. 

"As though I knew you just kind of have little itty bitty climaxes. I don't know this crap," you defend. "And to be honest, you should've figured it out from the bucket thing." 

"I thought you were like dying or something. You came for like fifteen, twenty minutes and passed out. You really, really, could've mentioned that," he says. "But man, who would've even thought of that? Like, hey bro, how long are you probably going to come for? I dunno, like maybe a half hour. Also I'll probs go into a coma afterward. Okay, cool. Gotcha. No need to freak out then."

"It's not a half hour," you say, shoving a handful of cereal into your mouth. "It's like, five minutes at most. Don't be ridiculous. Do you know how terrifying it'd be to come for a half hour?"

"Pretty sure humans only come for like twenty seconds," he says. 

You lay back into the pillows. "And all of that and the fact that you barely produce any genetic material thoroughly explains why apparently humans don't need to sleep for a full day after pailing. Or whatever you call it since it doesn't involve pails." 

He crawls over to lay down next to you. "Yeah, no need for post-sex hibernation," he says. Then he wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your hair. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't appreciate the sleep, though." 

You pull the covers over the both of you and abandon the cereal on the nightstand. 

Everything is soft and comfortable and you fall asleep as soon as your eyes slip shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So troll biology head canon: trolls build up genetic material during foreplay/actual sex bluh bluh and they climax for about five minutes while it is released rather slowly. (because i feel like if it just came out in a big rush there'd be no way to really be sure to get it in the bucket)
> 
> This expends an incredible number of calories (because they produce such a large amount of genetic material) and trolls usually spend the next couple of days doing nothing but eating and sleeping.
> 
> yeah


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like, a little extra epilogue sort of thing. It was going to be a sequel, but it ended up too short. 
> 
> Also uh... there's a sort of thing here that could be classified as cuminflation possibly...... not really but like??? I don't know. I just feel like I should put a kind of vague blerby warning incase that really bothers anyone. 
> 
> There's no actual full sex here. Just some further experimentation.

There are things you missed the first time. You didn't get a particularly good look at him through the whole ordeal. At least not in comparison to this time.

It's been several weeks and he's recovered and you've both decided you want to try again. 

"Trolls don't really do this that often," he'd told you. "It's like just when they need to and it's really kind of a huge trust thing." 

Even more so than humans, you'd found out. The whole idea of recreational sex is foreign to him. But he said he'd be up for it again. 

You don't know what your relationship is, exactly. It was supposed to be a friends with benefits sort of deal, but that's out the window. That would imply that you only do this sort of thing when one of you really needs it, which you don't. You kiss for no reason rather often and had been doing so before you'd done this the first time. 

Making out had been the start. Weird things happen when you're stuck in the same spot with such a small group of people for so long. You'd needed physical contact, some kind of a release, something to ease the tension and somehow that had been where you'd both decided to take it. 

It wasn't supposed to become genuinely intimate, really. It was supposed to be casual, as though that even made the tiniest bit of sense. 

You also took a bath with him last week. His hair needed a good washing, though. All that happened was that you took it upon yourself to fix the issue for him.

As though either of you ever actually even remotely believed that all of this was some kind of a platonic favor. That all just sounds like a bad punchline. 

But it's been some time since you've seen him like this, and you never thought he'd want to just lay himself out for you. 

He's still got his shirt on, but his pants are long gone. He's tucked into several large pillows with his legs somewhat spread. There's a little sliver of red visible between the partly spread plates of his bulge. 

You run your fingers over it tentatively. This is one of the things you never noticed before. His muscles clench. It's smooth and soft but you can feel the tapered tip. 

You've both decided to avoid doing it the way you did last time. It was well and fully established during the several days of him being in fatigued agony following your first time that his nook was not made for your dick. 

It was meant, strangely, to be able to take things significantly larger, just as long as they were a bit more flexible. It worked to get him to cum, but it definitely wasn't something that they should be doing regularly, if at all. 

You wondered if he'd be at all able to come with just a lot of fingering. 

"This isn't going to work," he says. His arms are crossed tight over his chest. 

"We've got nothing better to do," you say.

His bulge starts to unsheathe and his legs spread a bit wider as he relaxes. His arms uncross and his hands come down to meet yours. Then they pull back to rest on his hips. 

The thing is dripping red and, another thing you didn't notice before, apparently has splotchy freckle-ish markings. It twists around your fingers and you wonder if he does that himself or if it's autonomous. 

He leans back his head and his lips part, letting the clicking chirr that was already dancing in his throat flood into the air. He can make that noise when he's not like that, you know. It's apparently a part of troll speech, too. You hear it vaguely in overheard conversations he's had in alternian with Kanaya.

But then this is so much more like a purr, the way it coils in his throat and rolls off his tongue and wraps around his sighs. 

You stroke your whole hand over his bulge. He breathes in deeply and shudders out a gnarled but still clearly pleased exhale.

Your other hand plays with his nook. Eventually you work off any hesitation and put your fingers in. He inhales sharply, as he did before, and then lets his voice melt into a moan. 

He shudders and his breathing gets heavier and you move your fingers at a decidedly rough rhythm. You make long sweeping caresses of his bulge and settle into a pattern of thrusts and strokes.

"Mmm, not really, getting anywhere..." he says after quite a few minutes of relaxed sighs and groans that could've easily completely invalidated his current claim. 

"Could've fooled me," you say. You don't stop what you're doing though. 

"Yeah, I mean..." He clears his throat. "I mean, it feels good but it's not, really, doing it all the way. It's not going to work. I'm just going to be stuck in sex limbo the whole time. I'm going to build up genetic shit until I explode, but never actually come. It'll be great. Six hours of fingering to lead to an exploded troll." 

"Yeah, I don't have the attention span for six hours. I'd probs give up after like an hour, tops," you say. "Maybe if you could go and have a nice chat with yourself, have some tea, go out to lunch, and convince yourself to actually stop being so uncomfortable with telling me how you actually work, we'd get somewhere."

He rolls his eyes at you and grunts. You pull your fingers out of him and sit up, and he whines in protest. 

"No, no don't, don't," he says. 

"Dude, you said it wasn't working," you say in defense.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean it didn't feel good," he says. 

You sit back a bit and think, and while you think you look him over. He seems to be just as confused as you, somehow.

"You don't know how this shit is supposed to work, do you," you say. 

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I know how my own body works? I'm not fucking stupid," he spits out, insulted. You're vindicated by his tone.

"Yeah, so you don't know how it's supposed to work," you repeat.

He looks away from you for a second and then looks back. He tries to glare at you, but ends up looking away again and glaring at his stomach. "They don't exactly tell you how your body works."

You follow his gaze to his lower abdomen only after his expression becomes contorted and his hand trails to his belly to start prodding at it. He's being self conscious again. He needs to quit it with that. There's nothing wrong with how he looks. 

"Ah yes, good ol' abstinence only education or something?" you guess. "Same here."

"I'm pretty sure that they just don't want you figuring out how to properly masturbate or something so that their whole system doesn't fall apart," he says. You only vaguely know about the whole drone thing. They really must not be able to fully get off on just fingering if there's some kind of secret to it. 

He pokes at his stomach again, this time a bit harder, and his faces flashes discomfort.

You notice as he does it, though, that something is odd. 

Without thinking, you go and prod him, just as he was doing, probably a bit too hard. 

"Ow, hey, how about you don't do that," he snaps. 

It doesn't feel like it usually feels. He's really a pretty soft guy in the abdominal area. He's got zero abb muscles. His arms are a different story. You're pretty sure he puts all of his attention into developing his arms and back. 

Now his stomach is firm. And somewhat swollen.

"So uh, this normal?" 

You just run a hand over the shallow curve this time instead of poking it. 

"Yes, stop being weird about it," he says. "You build up genetic material while foreplay happens and then release it when you come. That's why you pass out for three days afterwards, I'm guessing." 

You can't resist prodding it experimentally again. You're gentler this time.

"That is some freaky shit..." you say. 

"I don't know anything other than that and I only know that because of novels," he continues. 

"I don't remember this happening last time. I feel like I've wasted the whole 'exploring each other's bodies like it's the full yaoi' opportunity," you say. Chalk that up to even more that you didn't notice. 

"Well it did," he states. 

"So what happens if you don't come?" you ask.

"It's always just kinda, gone away after a while. I don't fucking know," he says. "I think your body like breaks it down or something. I really have no idea. All I know is that after a while it starts to hurt and that's a good sign to stop." 

"Yeah, no kidding," you say. 

"I usually give up way before then. That only happened once. I was having a bad week," he says quickly. 

You try not to laugh and fail. He glares at you and bares those yellowed teeth set in charcoal colored gums. 

"Does it hurt now?" you ask. 

"No." 

You pause. You trace over his stomach and his hip bones and all the little marks on his skin. 

"Maybe you just, need something longer than my fingers, like you know, someone else's weird wiggledick," you think out loud. 

"If we actually had that option, I'd have said it already," he says. 

His bulge has actually more than half retracted at this point. There's a long silence where you simply rub his stomach absently and he seems to enjoy it. He relaxes his legs so that one is fully laying on the bed and the other is leaning on you. 

He plays with the hem of his shirt.

"You wanna go get something to eat?" he asks.

"Yeah alright."

**Author's Note:**

> So troll biology head canon: trolls build up genetic material during foreplay/actual sex bluh bluh and they climax for about five minutes while it is released rather slowly. (because i feel like if it just came out in a big rush there'd be no way to really be sure to get it in the bucket)
> 
> This expends an incredible number of calories (because they produce such a large amount of genetic material) and trolls usually spend the next couple of days doing nothing but eating and sleeping. 
> 
> yeah


End file.
